


Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

by Alchemine



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 23:08:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alchemine/pseuds/Alchemine
Summary: How Hecate Hardbroom had a happy Halloween after all. Coda to the s2 finale.





	Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

She’s never been so cold, not on the snowiest day in the deepest part of winter, not on the night when Grandmother transported her into the dead autumn garden and locked the doors against her as punishment for some forgotten infraction. The ice is long gone from the castle, but it’s still inside her, somewhere so far down that no source of heat can melt it. Even with her cloak clasped round her neck and Morgana on her lap and the fire in her room built up to near-inferno strength, she’s shaking, and her bones hurt.

There are blessings to be counted, of course. Esmeralda Hallow’s powers restored, the Founding Stone reignited, Ada and the girls safe, and to Hecate’s secret satisfaction, Miss Mould revealed as the fraud she always was. Hecate has refrained from actually saying the words _I told you so_ to Ada, but Ada knows her well enough, and is gracious enough in defeat, that she will probably say them herself, sooner or later. This thought is almost enough to create a spark of warmth that counteracts the cold–almost, but not quite.

She wonders if she can enhance the fire any further without setting the whole room ablaze, and is just deciding that it’s best not to risk it, when there’s a tap at the door that makes her groan to herself. After a feast, there’s always a girl or two who turns up needing a potion after eating too many finger-shaped biscuits and bat-cream cakes and sugared cobwebs, but she really would rather not interact with anyone at the moment. Still, she levers herself up, reluctantly unclasps her cloak and puts it aside, and tries not to shiver too visibly as she waves a hand to open the door.

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Hardbroom.”

Mildred Hubble looks apologetic, but she doesn’t look in any danger of being sick either, which is a good sign. She’s still dressed in her daytime clothes, and oddly, carrying a large paper bag that takes both her skinny arms to hold. Hecate looks down at her, draws breath for a scolding, and then sighs and says, “What is it, Mildred?”

“I’ve got something to give you. My mum sent it.” Mildred sets her bag down just inside the doorway and bends, plaits falling forward over her shoulders, to dig into its depths.

“Mistress Hubble?” Hecate asks, perplexed. “I thought she’d gone home after the Halloween feast.”

“She did for a bit, and then she came back, and now she’s gone again.” Mildred produces a large flask from the bag and thrusts it out to Hecate. It’s decorated with garish cartoon whales swimming in a peeling aquamarine sea, but it is wonderfully, incredibly hot against her icy hands, and she clasps it tight without meaning to.

“What is this?” she asks faintly.

“It’s tea,” Mildred informs her. “She says the tea here is awful. It really is, you know.”

Hecate is beginning to wonder if she’s having a frostbite-induced hallucination. “Why is your mother sending me tea?”

“She said she saw you shivering at the feast and she thought you might still be cold from the ice.” Mildred is busy in the bag again as she speaks, and her voice is somewhat muffled and strained, but still understandable. “And she says you seem as if you don’t look after yourself very well–sorry, but that’s what she says–so she made you the tea, and she also sent you this.” With these words, she pulls what looks like a large, rolled-up bundle of shabby multicoloured knitting out of the confines of the bag, and thrusts that on Hecate as well.

“She made it when she was expecting me,” Mildred confides. “It’s really warm, you’ll love it. She’ll want to have it back when you don’t need it anymore, but she says to keep it until then.”

“Oh,” Hecate says, unsure of how to respond to this. The knitted blanket is heavy and soft in her arms, and she can already feel it warming her in places where the fire couldn’t reach, as if Julie Hubble has imbued it with some sort of magic. This is a ridiculous notion–the Hubble woman is as unmagical as it’s possible to be, thanks to the curse–and yet she can’t seem to shake it off. “Well, that was very…kind of her.”

Mildred grins and tucks the empty bag under one arm. “She also said to tell you not to get any ideas, and that she’s only doing it because you can’t protect me properly if you’re ill, but she didn’t mean it. I could tell.” She pauses there, looking up at Hecate as if assessing whether Hecate believes her or not. “Anyway, I’ll go now. Good night, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Good night, Mildred,” Hecate says, and closes the door, cradling her unexpected gifts carefully against her chest. Perhaps, she thinks, there is a place for just a bit more than solemnity and ceremonial fires at Halloween.

She certainly doesn’t intend to admit that to Miss Drill, though.


End file.
